Point of Hopes (8 page)

The Old Brown Dog stood at its end, completely
blocking the street. It was a prosperous-looking place, three,
maybe four stories tall, if there were servants’ rooms under the
eaves. The sign—a sleeping dog, brown with a grey muzzle—was newly
painted, and the bush that marked the house as Leaguer tavern was a
live and flourishing redberry in a blue and white pot. A gargoyle
was rooting among the dropped fruit but took itself off with a
shriek as he got closer. The benches to either side of the door
were empty, but the main room seemed busy enough for midafternoon,
half a dozen tables filled and a waiter sweating as he hauled a
barrel up through a trap from the cellar. Light poured in from an
open door on the opposite side of the room—a door that gave onto a
garden, he realized. The air smelled of beer and pungent greenery
and the first savory whiffs of the night’s dinner.

The waiter got the barrel up onto its stand behind
the bar, and let the trap door down again. He wiped his hands on
the towel tied around his waist, and nodded to Eslingen. “Can I
help you, sir?”

“
I understood you rented rooms,”
Eslingen answered.

The man gave him a quick, comprehensive glance,
taking in the heavy soldier’s boots and the saddlebags slung over
his shoulder, but never took his hands from the towel. “That’s up
to the mistress,” he said. “And if we have a room. Adriana!”

A moment later, the top half of the door behind the
bar opened—the kitchen door, Eslingen realized—and a young woman
leaned out. She had taken the sleeves off her bodice while she
cooked, and her shirtsleeves were pinned back to the shoulder,
showing arms as brown as new bread; her tightly curled hair and
broad nose were unmistakable signs of Silklands blood. “Yeah?”

“
Is Aagte there?”

“
Mother’s busy.”

“
There’s a man come about a
room.”

“
Oh?” The woman—she was probably
about twenty, Eslingen thought, not precisely pretty but with a
presence to her that wasn’t at all surprising in the tavern
keeper’s daughter and heir—tipped her head to one side, studying
him with frank curiosity. “Who are you, then?”

Eslingen stepped up to the bar, gave her his best
smile. “My name’s Philip Eslingen, late of Coindarel’s Dragons.
Maggiele Reymers said the Brown Dog rented rooms.”

“
We do.” The woman—Adriana, the
waiter had called her—returned his smile with interest, showing
perfect teeth. “I’ll fetch Mother.” Before he could answer, she
popped back into the kitchen, closing the door behind
her.

Eslingen set the saddlebags at his feet—the floor
looked clean enough, and he was glad to be rid of their weight—and
leaned against the bar. The waiter had vanished in response to a
shout from the garden, but he was aware of the tavern’s regulars
watching from their tables, and did his best to ignore their
stares. Reymers had said that Devynck kept a Leaguer house; her
regulars must be used to the occasional, or more than occasional,
soldier passing through.

The kitchen door opened again—both halves, this
time—and a stocky woman came out, pushing her grey hair back under
the band of an embroidered cap. She wasn’t very tall, but she had
the familiar sturdy build and rolling walk of the longtime horse
trooper, and Eslingen touched his hat politely. “Sergeant
Devynck?”

The rank was a guess, but he wasn’t surprised when
she nodded and came forward to lean on the bar opposite him.
“That’s right. And you’re—Eslingen, was it?”

“
Philip Eslingen, ma’am, just paid
off from Coindarel’s regiment. Maggiele Reymers told me you rented
rooms.”

Devynck nodded again. She had a plain, comfortably
homely face, and startlingly grey eyes caught in a web of fine
lines. The daughter, Eslingen thought, had obviously gotten her
looks from her father. “That’s right. Three seillings a week, all
found, or one if you just want the room. How long would you want it
for?”

“
That depends. Maybe as long as the
fall hirings.”

“
I see. No taste for the current
season—what rank, anyway, Eslingen?”

“
I had my commission this spring,”
Eslingen answered. “Before that, I was senior sergeant.”

“
Ah.” This time, Devynck sounded
satisfied, and Eslingen allowed himself a soundless sigh of relief.
She, at least, would understand the awkwardness of his position; it
would be a reason she could sympathize with for sitting out a
campaign. Hearing the change in her voice, he risked a
question.

“
Three seillings a week all found
you said. What’s that include?”

“
Use of the room, it’s a bed,
table, stove, and chair, and clean linen once a week. The boy
empties your pot and rakes the grate, and the maid’ll do the
cleaning, Demesdays and Reasdays in the morning. You haul your own
water, there’s a pump out back.” Devynck’s eyes narrowed, as though
she were considering something, but she said only, “I suppose
you’ll want to see the room first.”

“
Please,” Eslingen
answered.

Devynck glanced over her shoulder, as though gauging
whether she could afford to leave the kitchen, then came out from
behind the bar. “Stairs are through the garden.”

Eslingen followed her out the back door. The garden
was bigger than he’d realized, stretching almost twice the length
of a normal city plot, and there were fruit trees along one wall,
the hard green apples little bigger than a child’s fist. There were
tables nearer the door and the ground around them was beaten bare;
beyond that area, rows of woven fence kept the drinkers out of
plots crowded with plants. Pig apples ripened on their sprawling
vines, yellow against the dark green leaves, and he thought he
recognized the delicate fronds of carrots in the nearest patch. The
pump, as promised was by the door, a spout shaped like Oriane’s
Seabull roaring above a cast-iron trough; the pump handle was iron,
too, and looked nicely weighted. A well-worn path led between the
fences to an outhouse by the back wall.

The stairs ran up the side of the tavern, and
Eslingen followed Devynck up past the first floor landing,
wondering if he would be offered a space under the eaves with the
servants. She stopped at the second floor, however, producing a
bunch of keys from her belt, unlocked the door and stood aside to
let him past. Eslingen glanced surreptitiously at the lock as he
went by, and was relieved to see a sturdy double bolt.

“
First on the right,” Devynck said,
and Eslingen went on down the well-scrubbed hall.

The door she had indicated stood ajar. Eslingen
pushed it open—it too had a solid-looking lock attached—and went on
into the room. It was surprisingly bright, the light of the twin
suns casting double shadows: the single window overlooked the
garden, and there was glass in the casement rather than the cheaper
oiled paper. The bed looked clean enough, the mattress lying bare
on its rope cradle, the plain curtains knotted up to keep away the
dust; as promised, there was a table big enough to seat two for
private dinners, and a single barrel chair. A ceramic stove was
tucked into the corner by the window, its pipe running out the wall
above the casement. It was small, Eslingen thought, but would at
least keep off the worst of the chill in winter, and let him make
his own tea and shaving water. It was all ordinary furniture,
clearly bought second or thirdhand, or relegated to the lodgers’
rooms when Devynck’s own family had no further use for them, but
still perfectly serviceable. He could, he thought, be reasonably
comfortable here.

As if she had read his mind, Devynck said, “I offer
lodgers a break on the ordinary. Two seillings more a week, and you
can have two meals a day below, dinner and supper. You take what
we’re serving, but it’s generally good, though I say it
myself.”

The smell that had come from the kitchen was
tempting enough, Eslingen admitted. He looked around the room
again, pretending to study the furniture, and added up the costs.
Five seillings a week wasn’t bad; that came to two pillars a lunar
month—twenty-one months, if he bought nothing else and earned
nothing else, neither of which was likely, and in practice he
should only have to stay in Astreiant until the spring, thirteen
months at most. He glanced at the whitewashed walls, the
well-scrubbed floorboards, and nodded slowly. “It sounds
reasonable, sergeant. I’ll take it.”

Devynck nodded back. “Meals, too?”

“
Please.”

“
Wise man. You won’t find it
cheaper unless you cook for yourself.” Devynck smiled. “I’ll need
the first week in advance.”

“
Agreed.” Eslingen reached into his
pocket, took out his purse, and searched through the coins until he
found a single heirat. The snake coiling across its face gleamed in
the sunlight as he handed it across. Devynck took it, turned it to
check the royal mint-mark, and slipped it deftly into her own
pocket.

“
Make yourself at home, Eslingen.
I’ll send someone up with your linens and your key. We lock the
main door at midnight, mind, but one of the boys will let you in if
you come back later.”

“
Thank you,” Eslingen answered, and
the woman turned away, skirts rustling. Eslingen shut the door
gently behind her, and stood for a moment contemplating the empty,
room. As always when he moved into a new place, either quartered on
some stranger or in lodgings of his own, he felt an odd thrill,
half apprehension, half anticipation; the room, the city, the air,
and the sunlight coming in through the open window, felt somehow
thick, heavy with potential. He set his saddlebags beside the
bed—he would need a clothes press, or at least a chest, he thought,
and wondered if he could borrow something suitable from Devynck—and
went to the window, leaned out into the scent of the fruit trees
and spilled beer, grateful for that note of commonality.

To his surprise, it was Adriana who appeared with
the sheets and blankets, followed by a pair of waiters carrying a
battered storage chest. At her gesture, they set it down inside the
door, and headed back to their other jobs. Adriana nodded
cheerfully and began to make up the bed.

“
You’re from Esling, then?” she
asked.

Eslingen nodded, watching her work—the sheets were
mended, but looked impeccably clean, and the blankets were only
minimally patched—said, “I left some years ago, though.”

“
Mother left Altheim when she was
sixteen.” Adriana loosened the curtains, slapped them smartly to
loosen what little dust had been allowed to gather, then stooped to
the chest, dragging it further into the room. Eslingen bent to help
her, and found himself looking down the front of her bodice, at the
cleavage between two nice breasts. He smiled realized she was aware
of his stare, and looked quickly away.

“
Where do you want this?” Adriana
asked.

“
Oh, under the window would be
fine,” Eslingen answered more or less at random, and together they
carried the heavy chest across the room.

“
So you were with Coindarel’s
regiment,” Adriana went on, and lifted the chest’s lid to reveal a
squat chamber pot, an equally unpretentious kettle, and a washbasin
and jug. “One hears a great deal about Coindarel.”

I wouldn’t be surprised Eslingen thought. He said “I
doubt all of it’s true.”

“
Oh?” She smiled a not quite openly
mischievous expression that started a dimple in one dark cheek. She
seemed about to say something, but then changed her mind, her smile
still amused and secret. “I brought a candle-end for you, but after
that, you’ll buy your own.”

“
Thanks.” Eslingen watched her out
of the corner of his eye, wondering just which of the many rumors
she had heard. Probably the one about Coindarel choosing his
officers for their looks, he thought, and didn’t know whether to be
regretful or relieved. She was pretty—more than pretty, really, and
Devynck’s daughter would have a substantial share in her mother’s
business, if not the whole of it, since he’d seen no other
sisters—but he would be wise to keep hands off until he knew her
intentions. Not that he would be so lucky as to attract an offer of
marriage—I think well of myself, he admitted, with an inward smile
of his own, and with reason, but there’s not a woman alive who’d
think I have enough to offer her to make that contract worth her
while. But there were other obligations, other degrees of interest
and desire, and until he knew more about her, it would be wise to
step warily. She was certainly of an age to be thinking about
children.

Adriana’s smile widened briefly, as though she’d
guessed what he was thinking, but she said only, “That’s your
furniture, sergeant—and Mother does charge for damage. The
kitchen’s open from six o’clock to first sundown, you can eat any
time then. I’ve told the waiters not to charge you.”

“
Thank you,” Eslingen said again,
and Adriana answered, “My pleasure, sergeant.”

“
Certainly mine,” Eslingen replied
automatically, and wondered if he’d been entirely wise. Adriana
flashed him another quick grin, showing teeth this time, and let
herself out in a flurry of skirt and petticoat.

Left to himself, Eslingen leaned out the window to
check the sundial that stood in the garden below. Past four, he
guessed, from the length of the shadows, but couldn’t see the dial
itself. He would want a timepiece of some sort, he thought,
frowning—one needed to keep rough track of the hours; even the
least observant did their best to avoid their unlucky times—and
then a tower clock sounded from the direction of the Street of
Knives, a strong double chime marking the half hour. There would be
no missing that sound; probably the real difficulty would be
learning to sleep through it every night. He allowed himself a
small sigh of relief, and began methodically to unpack his
belongings.